"Oh Lord, I’m sick of myself
I’d rather bury it than carry it
I’m desperate for help
And barely sentient means I’m just being me
Follow suit the destitute my modus operandi

A face that’s marked by pallor means you’re wasting away
So get a tan and raise your hands and take to feeling okay
No one enjoys the party when they’re stricken with anemia
A shallow sinking surface simply screaming septicemia

Peace of mind is hard to find
So I’m standing in line and feeling fine

Aye, me sad hours seem long
And even longer when you’re numb
Fading away and that’s okay
Cause life has me under her thumb"